


The Commander's Room

by randompandemic



Series: Cullen & Róisín [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4117221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randompandemic/pseuds/randompandemic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since arriving in Skyhold, Cullen and the Inquisitor have been regularly meeting in his room for a round of chess. But as their relationship becomes more intimate, they have anything but chess on their mind...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Commander's Room

**Author's Note:**

> (This was written when the first image of Cullen's room was released, with him standing there smirking a little. It was not yet revealed that to GET to that bed, you had to climb a bloody ladder! Seriously, who came up with that?! So inconvenient! So, no ladder in this fic)

_**Then** _

He had chosen the room for strategic reasons, she guessed. Because what other reason could there be to move into this dump, when the rest of the Keep was in perfectly nice a state?

The room overlooked most of the training facilities, the tents where his troupes were gathering, the main gate of the Keep and the road that led up toward it. So yes, _strategically_ the place was pretty much ideal. As for comfort? Not at all. The roof had caved in, seemingly years ago, and had been hastily replaced by wood planks that did little to filter out the weather. In the rain everything would get wet, in the snow she could well imagine this entire room to freeze over, and even when the sun was out, there would probably be birds hopping around in here. On the wall opposite the door, ivy was breaking through the stones. There was a small table, two old rugs in red and gold thread, a barrel turned nightstand with a candle and a book on it, and a bed that possibly was the nicest part about this room. It was large enough, but where it stood she would think it would likely get rained on. He had started a small fire cracking in the fireplace, but it did little to keep out the cold. No wonder he wore these thick furs all the time.

Trevelyan rubbed her arms.

“Are you sure you wish to stay up here, Ser Cullen? There’s perfectly nice rooms in the east wing.”

“They are a bit too nice for what I am used to, Serah. The Templar quarters were not as nice as you might think. I like this, it’s simple, and I’ll spend most of my days in the war room anyways.”

“Yes but you intend to sleep here. You’ll catch certain death.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“Please do not worry.”

She frowned up at the former Templar. She knew he would not listen, but the thought of him isolating himself in these shambles… it did worry her.

“Hm… perhaps I could come visit you from time to time? Varric mentioned you play chess, I always wanted someone to teach me.”

“I… I do play chess,” he said, a strange hesitation in his words before he nodded and smiled at her. “It would be my pleasure to teach you, Serah.”

“Then we will do that!” she said cheerfully. He nodded quietly and before she left, she put a hand on his arm gently, so he would know he had someone to talk to in this Keep, even if they came from different worlds.

——————–

_**Now** _

Despite all that had happened, three days after the masquerade Trevelyan took the stairs towards Cullen’s room for their regular chess lessons. She brought a platter with fruit and bread with her, two chalices of red wine, and knocked with her boot.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. Chess?”

There was a pause on the other side, a little longer than what she was used to and she momentarily wondered if it had been foolish. If what happened the other night… _changed_ things between them. But finally the door opened. Cullen looked at her with wonder in his eyes, then blinked down at the food she brought. He stepped aside and smiled.

“Please, come in. It is… it is good to see you, Serah.”

She frowned.

“Cullen, I think we are past titles, are we not? What will it take for you to call me Ros? Or, at least, Róisín?”

“It would be inappropriate, Inquisitor. You _are_ our leader still.”

“It was not so inappropriate the other night…” she mumbled to herself. Her military advisor laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck like he always did when he was even the tiniest bit nervous.

She peeked past him. The sun was shining in through the cracks in the ceiling and the usual fire was burning in the fireplace. He cleared his throat.

“Will you stay out there? Or will you come in?” he asked. Her eyes snapped up to meet his and she saw a hint of a smirk on his lips. She realised only then that she had stayed right in the spot, still in the stairwell. She gasped.

“Right. I’m coming in!” she declared and took a decisive step over the threshold into his room. She wondered why she never before had noticed the way it smelled in here. Rainwater, cinder, the varnish he used for his armour, leather, wine, a mix of herbs and lyrium and something that was just… him. Something she had noticed when they had been so intimate, the scent of his skin when she had been close enough to smell it. The memory of that night made her heart race. The memory of his hands and lips on her skin, of what he could _do_ with these lips of his. The memory of-

“Let me.”

He reached for her, took the tablet with food and wine from her hands and placed it on the wobbly table near the fireplace.

“Has no one taken a look at that roof yet?”

“It’s fine,” he insisted.

“It’s fine now, but it will be winter soon. I don’t want you to freeze to death up here.”

“You’ll just have to keep me warm then,” he said and when she looked over at him, she found that mischievous smile on his lips once more. It made heat rise in her cheeks, but it also tugged at the corners of her lips, forming a small, shy smile. She tried to pull her gaze from him, to avoid making a fool of herself. But within a moment, she felt his fingertips on her lips, then he turned her towards him. “Don’t deny me your smile.”

He leaned closer, kissed the corner of her lips.

All thought of playing chess had been promptly wiped from her mind. She sighed, melted into his arms, let his tongue part her lips to deepen their kiss. She ran her fingers through his soft blond curls. His arms came around her, held her close against him, against his heavy armour. It seemed he had almost forgotten about that, because he suddenly pulled away. Trevelyan very nearly stumbled, but he caught her with a smile, pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Don’t stop the kissing. I enjoy the kissing,” she whispered. He smiled, brushed strands of black hair behind her ears.

“What about chess?”

“I think I enjoy kissing more than chess.”

“You’re certainly better at kissing than chess.”

She gasped at his smirk and lightly punched his arm. He laughed, and gingerly kissed her neck. A soft moan escape her. Maker, the feeling of his lips on her skin was just too wonderful. If it were up to her, he would never stop. She drew in a sharp breath and began pulling at his belt.

“I need you out of that armour. Right now.”

He darkly chuckled against her and helped her as she eagerly opened the clasps of his armour, helping him out of the metal plates. With the hard edges gone, she could wrap her arm around his neck, pull him to her in another heated kiss, feel his body against hers. His hands gently roamed along her body, up her sides, she felt his fingers through the fabric of her tunic.

With one swift move, he had her pulled up against him. Her legs wrapped around his waist and with unbroken kisses, he carried her to the bed and she found herself falling. Yet she never once felt unsafe, knew his arms held her safely, knew he would not let her hurt herself. They fell onto the bed, his large form above her and he unwrapped her tunic slowly. His fingertips left trails of fire on her bared skin. His hips rocked against her and she responded in kind, all too eager to feel him once more.

A moan escaped her, shaped around his name, when he pulled down her trousers and kissed past the strip of black curls. She felt his smile.

“Maker’s breath, I love the way you say my name…” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin onb the inside of her thigh.

He seemed to make it his mission then, to draw his name from her lips over and over. His tongue ventured between her thighs, made her ache and cry and writhe beneath him. She pressed her hips off the bed to meet him, eager for the sensation. His fingertips teased her entrance and he was painfully slow to push a finger inside her. It drew a long cry from her. He thrust his digit as deep as he could reach while his tongue attentively flicked across her clit just so, just in the right way to make her head spin. She arched her back, one hand digging into his golden locks, the other grabbed the pillow over her face to stifle her loud cries of pleasure.

She dropped back onto the mattress when the waves had crashed over her, out of breath, bones turned soft and she watched him as he drew lazy kisses around her belly button.

“Maker, Cullen, your lips…” she sighed. He smiled, fingertips travelled over her skin, light as butterfly wings chasing chills over her thighs. When he met her lips in a kiss, his breath was hot, and his tongue tasted of her. She could reach under his fur pauldron, slowly dragged her nails across his back. His breath ghosted over her lips in shallow groans. His hips pressed against hers and Maker, she could feel him, hard against her, maybe just as aching to plunge into her as she was to feel him inside.

She pulled his lower lip between her teeth, ground herself against him. “Do you want me?”

“Ros…” he whispered, his voice shaking.

“Do you want me, Cullen?”

“Yes!”

“Yes?”  she asked, her voice low, like velvet, and her hand travelled to the hard bulge in his trousers. He shivered, groaned.

“Maker, _yes_ , I want you.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” she whispered in his ear. He laughed a stifled, aching laugh and pushed her legs apart until it was almost straining. She wrapped around him, her feet stroked up the back of his thighs. She felt him reach between them to free his hardened cock from confinement, while his teeth grazed her earlobe and neck and without warning, he thrust into her. She cried out, archer her back, heels dug into his behind. His length was deep inside her, then pulled out almost entirely, maddeningly slow, until she whimpered, longing to be reunited with him. A harder thrust slammed into her, shook the bed under them. Her voice broke in her throat with every new cry he demanded of her, mixed with his deep roans, she felt his voice rumble in his chest pressed against her.

He reached under her knee with one arm, pulled out of her completely and flipped her leg over his shoulder, opening her wide to him before he slammed into her again and again. They were fast, raw, not hesitant and all new as it had been at the masquerade. This time he knew what he wanted, just as she did, and they both gladly gave the other what they desired. She whispered his name, begged him, urged him deeper. Sweat-slicked skin slapped against each other, his thrusts grew more urgent, erratic, wild, the sounds rising in his chest more primal. The bed under them was quaking dangerously in rhythm, with their fierce collision of flesh. She pressed her hips up to meet him, to savour the friction, to feel his length fill her up completely, feel the heat forming between them, and then – with one hard, last thrust – he stilled deep inside her and she felt him spend himself in her.

His breath came in trembling hot pants against her neck, sweat was glistening on his face and his arms were shaking with exhaustion as he held himself up to not crush her under his body. His lips wandered from her neck up her chin, along her jawline, over her cheeks to finally linger on her lips for a long, tender kiss. He pulled away from her – left her with an utterly empty, cold feeling – and rolled to his back next to her. His chest was heaving and she could not help but scoot closer, kiss his collarbone and draw circles on his stomach with her fingertips. His tunic and pauldron were in a loose mess around him. His arm came around her to brush his finger through her hair and hold her close and-

A notable creaking made them both freeze, they barely dared breath for a moment, unsure of the source of the sound. A heartbeat passed, a second, a third, and the next moment, the bed cracked and collapsed under them. Trevelyan shrieked with surprise, clung to the dishevelled man next to her, who held her securely in his arms. They stayed still as the old wooden bedframe had collapsed around them and then she felt a chuckle rise in his chest, right under her ear. She tried to fight the laugh, she truly did, but it burst from her still.

They sat up to inspect the mess of cracked, old wood frames. Cullen wrapped his arms around her from behind, rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Well…” he began.

“I think that is a very good excuse to move you out of this room,” she said, before he could protest. He laughed, then pressed his lips to her bare shoulder.

“Later. Lie with me now,” he said, his voice lazy and sweet, and he pulled her back down on the mattress with him. She cuddled up against him. They stayed in each other’s arms and watched the light travel by the cracked ceiling, and neither of them had any intention to move.


End file.
